The Wandering Jew — Volume 11 eBook

the marshal and the black cassock of the Jesuit, from
time to time the sudden gleam of the steel. He
would have heard only a dull stamping, and now and
then a deep breath. In about two minutes at most,
the two adversaries fell, and rolled one over the other.
One of them—­it was Father d’Aigrigny—­contrived
to disengage himself with a violent effort, and to
rise upon his knees. His arms fell powerless
by his side; and then the dying voice of the marshal
murmured: “My children! Dagobert!”

“I have killed him,” said Father d’Aigrigny,
in a weak voice; “but I feel—­that
I am wounded—­to death.”

Leaning with one hand on the ground, the Jesuit pressed
the other to his bosom. His black cassock was
pierced through and through, but the blades, which
had served for the combat, being triangular and very
sharp, the blood instead of issuing from the wounds,
was flowing inwards.

“Oh! I die—­I choke,” said
Father d’Aigrigny, whose features were already
changing with the approach of death.

At this moment, the key turned twice in the door,
Rodin appeared on the threshold, and, thrusting in
his head, he said in a humble and discreet voice:
“May I come in?”

At this dreadful irony, Father d’Aigrigny strove
to rise, and rush upon Rodin; but he fell back exhausted;
the blood was choking him.

“Monster of hell!” he muttered, casting
on Rodin a terrible glance of rage and agony.
“Thou art the cause of my death.”

“I always told you, my dear father, that your
old military habits would be fatal to you,”
answered Rodin with a frightful smile. “Only
a few days ago, I gave you warning, and advised you
take a blow patiently from this old swordsman—­who
seems to have done with that work forever, which is
well—­for the Scripture says: ’All
they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.’
And then this Marshal Simon might have had some claim
on his daughter’s inheritance. And, between
ourselves, my dear father, what was I to do?
It was necessary to sacrifice you for the common interest;
the rather, that I well knew what you had in pickle
for me to-morrow. But I am not so easily caught
napping.”

“Before I die,” said Father d’Aigrigny,
in a failing voice, “I will unmask you.”

“Oh, no, you will not,” said Rodin, shaking
his head with a knowing air; “I alone, if you
please, will receive your last confession.”

“Oh! this is horrible,” moaned Father
d’Aigrigny, whose eyes were closing. “May
God have mercy on me, if it is not too late!—­Alas!
at this awful moment, I feel that I have been a great
sinner—­”

“And, above all, a great fool,” said Rodin,
shrugging his shoulders, and watching with cold disdain
the dying moments of his accomplice.

Father d’Aigrigny had now but a few minutes
more to live. Rodin perceived it, and said:
“It is time to call for help.” And
the Jesuit ran, with an air of alarm and consternation,
into the courtyard of the house.